Ranger Girl
by hannah.jpg
Summary: Eomer meets a strange girl in Minas Tirith on the edge of war.
1. Chapter 1

_15 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

When Éomer arrived at Imrahil's study at the appointed time, there were raised voices filtering through the half-open door. He stopped in his tracks, fazed at this unexpected obstacle but unable to keep from listening.

"If Amrothos is allowed to stay despite his wound, then certainly so should I! Father, you cannot possibly—"

Imrahil's reply was quieter, but still audible. "Lothíriel, you have fought already, and bravely. Do you seek death so keenly? There is far more that you can do in Dol Amroth to protect our people from the shadows than lingering in this gloomy place."

"I _need_ to stay, Father; I can drive it the shadow by continuing to _fight_ , not by fleeing to Belfalas!"

Imrahil said coldly, "You are acting like a child. I have given my orders, and you will obey them—you _will_ return to Dol Amroth with Elphir in three day's time. And if you continue to protest, I will deem your training is a failure, as you cannot respect your own superior."

There was a tense silence. Then a sound which seemed to be a foot stamping against the floor in frustration. "Goodbye, Father. I must report to my _captain_." A set of footsteps approached, and alarmed, Éomer stepped back from the door just in time for the small, scowling figure with bright red cheeks to hurtle out of it. This girl, to whom Imrahil must have been speaking, was dressed in the uniform of the Rangers from Ithilien, dirtied from battle. She glanced quickly up at him with a frown, turned away, and then paused. This time her eyes travelled more slowly over his dirty armor, a smile growing on her face. Éomer, equally as interested in her, noted the long black braids swinging down her back and a pair of eyes as grey as her father's. So this was Imrahil's daughter. He had heard much of her.

"Lord," she said, and touched her fist to her brow. Then she turned and swept down the corridor, and he saw a yew bow and empty quiver slung across her back. She walked with confidence that did not surprise Éomer, and it was not until she had disappeared around a corner that he knocked on Imrahil's door.

The prince's voice was tired, but his face lit with a sincere smile as Éomer entered. Similarly to Éomer, Imrahil had yet to clean himself up after the battle on Pelennor, and he still wore his silver armor and dirtied cape. His plumed helmet rested on the desk where he sat, and he waved for Éomer to sit opposite him.

"I thank you for coming at my request, Lord Éomer," Imrahil said. "Or should I say, King Éomer?" There was a glint in his eyes which Éomer took to be teasing, and for that he was grateful—his advancement had yet to sink in, and any more truckling would be most unwelcome. There was too much to do, and too many griefs to sort through.

"Just Éomer," he replied absently.

"I apologize for the scene you witnessed," the prince continued, and Éomer had the grace to shift awkwardly. "My daughter...has a strong will."

"Not unlike my sister," he said, striving for a smile. The thought of Eowyn in the Healing Houses, made his gut twist with lingering nerves. Though he had stayed with her most of the day, he could not help the worry that continued for her. Would Aragorn's ministrations suffice to heal her fully?

"No. I should think they have very much in common. I wonder sometimes, if allowing Faramir to train her as a ranger, was a mistake…" Imrahil's voice trailed off, his eyes gazing off into some distant thought. Then he roused himself, and sat forward. "I wish to offer lodgings for you and some of your most will have to stay in tents outside the city, I have beds for twelve. You are welcome to them, as well as to everything in my house which you need—food, clothing, etc. The servants who have stayed will be at your disposal."

This generous offer staggered Éomer. Though he liked and respected Imrahil very much, he had not thought the prince's regard for him to extend so far. "I—thank you," he said lamely. "I am grateful for your hospitality."

Imrahil smiled, inclining his head. "You are most welcome. And there is space for your steeds, as well."

Relief swept over Éomer; after such a battle, it would not seem right to leave Firefoot on the plains, even with his squire.

"I can send a message to the camps on your behalf," Imrahil continued. "I have a few to send myself. Name your men you wish me to house, and then you may go seek your rest."

Éomer obeyed on both accounts, and left the study feeling much more at ease. His lodgings and food he at least had not to worry about; the mashed oats and dried meat from the long march from Dunharrow had grown quite dull already. The prince of Dol Amroth was a better man than Éomer had ever suspected, and at the moment he promised himself to always oblige his friend for this kindness.

* * *

An hour or so later, Éomer was washed with cold water and wearing borrowed clothing far too small for him, which stretched uncomfortably across his shoulders and chest. The trousers, which only reached halfway down his calf were, at least, hidden in his riding boots. This gave him enough equanimity to leave his guest chamber in search of food; he was positively ravenous.

Imrahil's dining hall was empty, but the smell from the kitchen urged Éomer onward until he found what he was searching for: a pot of stew being tended to by a man with red-rimmed eyes and a bandage on his hand. He gave to Éomer a filled bowl as well as half-loaf of bread, apologizing profusely for the lack of variety in the meal.

"There is no need to be sorry," he assured the man, barely keeping the drool inside his mouth. "This is better fare than I have eaten in days." But feeling unwelcome in the cook's domain, Éomer returned to the empty hall, and began to wolf down the stew. It had been a very, very long day, and the clean bed of Imrahil's guest chamber would be calling him before long…

There was a murmur of voices from the kitchens, and Éomer looked up with sleepy interest just in time to see Imrahil's daughter enter the hall, her own supper in hand. She saw him immediately, and strode towards him with her chin held high. She had washed up, too, though she appeared little different than earlier apart from an unstained uniform. The bow was still strapped to her back.

Oh, Béma. He was too tired for this.

She sat across from him, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and began to dunk her bread in her stew. "So," she said after a moment. "You are Éomer of Rohan." It was not a question, but a statement. Éomer met this girl, this Lothíriel's grey eyes, and blinked at the frankness he saw there.

"I am," he said. "And you are Lothíriel."

She granted him a flitting smile. "So I am. But that hardly matters, does it? Not when my skills are deemed unnecessary and I am forbidden to fight."

Éomer did not know what to say.

"I want to know of your charge," Lothíriel said bluntly. "I heard the horns and I saw the cavalry sweep across the fields—" Her voice was trembling, and he looked up to see high color in her cheeks and an uncanny brightness in her eyes. "I wish I had been there! I want—I want to know what it was like. Lord," she added as an afterthought.

He flinched as an echoing scream pierced through his mind. Then, voice rough, he said, "You saw my uncle's charge?"

"Yes; I was stationed on the walls." A smile, proud and perhaps arrogant, lifted her lips. "I am one of my cousin's Faramir's rangers; he trained me himself since I was but fourteen."

Éomer nearly choked as he took a bite of bread. " _Fourteen_?"

Lothíriel's smile faded, and she regarded him with coolness now. "Indeed. Do not bother acting outraged on my behalf, Lord, for I have already met your sister and I know she learned the arts of war longer than I."

"Er—" Again, he was at a loss for words. Truthfully, the last thing he wanted to do at that moment was to relieve any part of his day; the death, the blood, the screaming—his uncle lying dead, Eowyn appearing to be dead, his men dead… Éomer bit his tongue to keep from shuddering, and tasted blood.

"Was it glorious?" Her attention had returned to her original inquiry, and her voice now hushed in reverence.

"No," Éomer said shortly. Lothíriel blinked, and he continued, "It was _war_ , Lady. It _is_ war. There is nothing glorious about it. Perhaps the lays and ballads in decades to come will be glorious, when the stench of death and the screams of the dying have been forgotten, but not now."

Her expression had turned to stone as he spoke, and she stiffened in her seat. "My brother Amrothos told me I ought to have been on the fields," she said, as if musing to herself. "Then I would never want to see a battle again. But I cannot believe him; he is dosed on poppy for the wound to his shoulder."

"Your brother is correct. You were on the walls, you say? Comfortably away from the terror, I judge."

Now Lothíriel's lip curled, and her eyes turned hard. The grip on her spoon was white-knuckled, and Éomer bit back a sigh of exasperation.

"I had thought to admire the great King of Rohan, who drove the enemy from our lands," she said coldly. "But you are as soft as my brothers and father."

Éomer, having spoken with Imrahil several times now and also having seen him wield a great silver spear in battle, said nothing. There was no diplomatic response. The prince's daughter shot him one more look of disgust, and stood, taking her unfinished supper back to the kitchens.

He let loose a sigh and slunk into the seat, his appetite now completely gone.

* * *

 _Aha! A new story! Hope you like :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_18 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

The dawn was grey and chill, and mist hung upon the city, eschewing the sight of the upper levels from the plains below. Everything was silent—too silent. Éomer felt prickles of nerves break out across his skin as he departed Aragorn's tent behind Imrahil. He glanced around quickly, looking for the sight of his squire and Firefoot, before remembering this march would bring no horses. This would be his first fight without his steed, and perhaps his last fight at all…

Helmet under arm, Éomer strode along the side of the road which led from the smashed gate, where stood in a line the men that would challenge Mordor's might. The soldiers had shuffled in, without regard to rank or standard, and the faces he saw underneath helms were ashen. Men from Minas Tirith, knights of Dol Amroth, fighters from the Southern provinces of Gondor, rangers of the North and of Ithilien—

Éomer stopped as a small figure, hidden in the ranks, turned away from him. A dark cloak was worn over their face, but the familiar brown and green uniform peeked through, and so short of stature compared to the rest of the men, Éomer had a horrible suspicion. The black braid which fell from the hood only confirmed it.

Imrahil would be furious.

He turned on his heel, the men moving aside as he entered the mass of soldiers. The squeeze was tight, but it worked in his favor—the figure could not escape, and Éomer's fingers wrapped around a thin arm like a vice, and half-dragged the person out of the formation.

"Let go of me!" A feminine voice said, and the girl struggled against his grip. But Éomer was merciless, and once they were far enough away not to be overheard, he released her, and cast back the hood of her cloak.

Belligerent grey eyes glared up at him. That they had lovely flecks of gold did not ease his annoyance, though it did stall him. In his silence, Lothíriel threw back her head proudly. "You have no right!" she snapped.

He found his voice, and spoke harshly. "No right to what? See that your father's wishes are carried out?"

"Yes—no! You are not _my_ king, _my_ captain, or _my_ father—and you may remove your hand from _my_ person!" She tried to wrench her arm away, but Éomer held fast.

"Perhaps you are right," he said, and noticing a few heads turning in their direction, tried to speak more mildly. "But I am _a_ king and _a_ captain, both of which outrank you. Shall I drag you to your father, or will you go of your own accord?"

Lothíriel's lip curled into a snarl. "You would take a willing soldier from the fight? That might be the worst military tactic I have ever heard of."

"I will take a wayward daughter to her father. Little as you appear to value his orders, I feel them quite keenly. As well as I understand the grief that comes from finding kin dead on the battlefield. I would not wish that upon your father for anything." Éomer's voice was hard despite that he kept it soft, and strangely, the girl could only blink, staring up at him. Her lovely eyes filled with tears, and he nearly groaned aloud. Béma! He could not abide ladies weeping; it made him feel weak and guilty. So before she could befuddle him any longer, he turned, still holding her arm, and marched her back to the encampment outside the walls, where Imrahil was to be giving out final orders to the captains.

"Stop! Stop!"

Thinking that at last she had chosen sense, Éomer paused, and faced her again. Lothíriel hurriedly wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her tunic. "I will go," she said nasally. "I am supposed to be leaving with my brother for Belfalas; I will go to Elphir. I—I do not want to see my father."

"And where is your brother?" he asked patiently.

"He—he is south of the army, gathering the wounded to be sent back to Dol Amroth."

Loosening his grip on account of her apparently amiability, Éomer directed their path southwards. It was not far before the wains and wagons came into sight, being directed by Imrahil's eldest son. Éomer had met Elphir a few times previously, a hazard of lodging in the same house, and liked him quite a lot; he was like his father, sensible and brave. He suspected that Lothíriel had preferred to wager her punishment for trying to sneak into the lists on her brother rather than her father, and he could not blame her. Brothers generally did have a soft spot, where their sisters were concerned.

Elphir, latching the back side of a wagon shut, did not see them approach until they were a few feet away. He turned, saw his sister, and paused. Then he lifted his brows in a very unimpressed look and crossed his arms sternly.

"Need I ask?" he said.

"No," Lothíriel muttered. "Lord, you may release me now."

Éomer did so, and she rubbed her arm with a glower in his direction.

"Thank you for returning her," Elphir told him, inclining his head in greeting. "We are all spared Father's displeasure. He prefers to have his orders obeyed." This hard voice was directed at his sister, who shifted uncomfortably. "Your mount is waiting for you at the head of the column," he told her, pointing a finger in the direction of where the standard of Dol Amroth waved in the chill breeze. "Lord Duilion is there to keep you in line. Go."

Lothíriel slunk away, her shoulders slumped forward, and disappeared among the wains.

"Will she try to run again?" Éomer asked, watching her go.

"I do not think so. Lord Duilion knows my father's orders. She will have no chance."

"I wonder if keeping her from the fight is cruel, if she desires it so strongly," Éomer said. "I—she is very convincing, even if her arguments lack grace."

"So you have found the weakness of all the men in my family," Elphir chuckled. "Lothíriel is difficult to deny. Perhaps that is why she is so willful."

There was silence after this, and then Éomer roused himself. "I must return; we will march shortly. I wish you well on your journey."

"Thank you; and the same to you." Their voices were casual, as if there was nothing ahead of either of them but a pleasant meander through friendly lands. Éomer was experienced with this pretending, and he knew Elphir would be, too. So they clasped arms in parting, and Éomer returned to the main force.

He had nearly been gone too long; Aragorn and Imrahil were at the front, conversing as he approached. Éomer nodded at the captains whom he knew by sight, who stood just behind them, and who included many of his own friends and lords. Most were unharmed, though Elfhelm had a bandage on his head. He carried his helm, just like Éomer; who knew that the iron would pain a head wound considerably. But Elfhelm saluted him, appearing no worse for the wear, and Éomer grinned before Imrahil drew him into their conversation.

"We wished to wait for you to sound the horns," the prince told him. "Was your inspection of the soldiers successful?"

Éomer paused in confusion, and then said quickly, "Yes, indeed. All is well." A niggling worry about Lothíriel and what trouble she might cause gave him some pause, but there was no use for it. They were going their separate ways; Elphir would keep his sister safe. And Éomer now had other concerns to attend.

"Then give the order, Imrahil," said Aragorn. "Sauron will not wait."


	3. Chapter 3

_2 July 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Éomer rested his hands on the marble stone balcony, gazing out at the ocean beyond. It was a new sight for him; a beautiful, blue-grey shimmer that extended to the horizon, unbroken and smooth as glass. It was a far cry from the view from Minas Tirith, where the mounds of soldiers lost in the Battle of Pelennor still stood, with banners waving in the wind. Though it had now been over a year since the war's ending, the farmers who had returned to Pelennor had left the mounds as monuments, at least as Aragorn had explained it during Éomer visit the week previously.

He had just arrived in Dol Amroth the previous night with Imrahil, having travelled from Minas Tirith once Eowyn was good and wed. Imrahil had invited Éomer to his seat many times over the past several months, and with the rebuilding of Rohan coming along wonderfully, Éomer had decided he could spare an extra month in Gondor for both his pleasure with his friends and to negotiate trade deals with various merchants and other tradesmen of Belfalas. He was feeling very wise, and very kingly. It was perhaps the first time that Éomer thought that he might relax, and trust in his now practiced abilities. But he did hope he could snatch a chance to explore the beach; it did look very inviting...

The salty sea breeze brought the sound of shouts to his ears, and Éomer glanced further down to a strip of private beach which extended from the palace. Three figures were swimming in the tides, laughing and howling as a wave knocked them over. They were all black-haired, and Éomer guessed these were some of the prince's children, either avoiding duties or taking a break from them. He felt oddly reminiscent at the sight; his only sibling was now wed, and there would be no splashing in the ocean for a king.

A knock sounded at his door, and Éomer turned to see Elphir poke his head into the chamber, a broad grin on his face. "Come to the beach," he said. "It is a perfect day for a swim."

"Ah—" Truth be told, Éomer was sorely tempted. But Imrahil would need him; there was much business to accomplish before his return to Rohan…

"Father is reviewing the guard," Elphir added. "There is nowhere else you ought to be."

This decided him. Surely it would do no harm, to enjoy a respite from travel and meetings, from councils and trainings… He followed Elphir from the room, the day seeming so much brighter already. The corridors, pillared from white marble so that the wind from the sea could be felt in all parts of the palace, were filled with piercing sunlight, and Éomer blinked. Through a courtyard, down a set of white stone steps, and out a gate through the palace walls.

Outside Imrahil's house and facing away from the city, the vista of pale grasses and wildflowers seemed to go on forever, apart from where it ran into white sand and rolling blue waves. It was a climb down to the private beach Éomer had been watching from his chamber earlier, but the makeshift steps of roots were well-worn. The noise of those already swimming was growing, and he could not help grinning.

He saw Erchirion and Amrothos as they approached, and to his surprise saw that Lothíriel was there, too. But of course she was! Éomer had thought very little of her since the previous spring. But it did not negate the fact that she would be in Dol Amroth, and naturally be living in the palace.

Elphir was already doffing his shirt and boots, and Éomer copied him, though his eyes remained on the lady. She wore light-colored trousers just as her brothers, and a white tunic which reached her knees. As he watched, she shouted at Amrothos to stay still where he was, chest-deep in the water, and she hoisted herself upon his shoulders until one bare foot was planted on either side of his face. She stood tall, and Amrothos groaned loudly.

"Shush!" Her bossy voice was easily audible. Then she bent at the knees, and pausing to take a breath, hurtled herself backwards into a perfect arc, hair flying, and landed feet first into the ocean a few feet behind Amrothos. Both of her brothers already in the water were splashed by her jump, and Elphir laughed.

"It does not seem fair," he said to Éomer. "I taught her that—and now I fear that I would break my back if I tried."

Éomer chuckled along with him, and the waves beckoned him enter. The water was warm from the morning sun, and the sand beneath his feet wet and thick. Having learned to swim in the Mark's icy rivers, it was quite pleasant, and he swam some twenty feet into the ocean before turning back, but not without a longing glance ahead of him. How far did the sea go?

When he returned to the group, he met Lothíriel's gaze just as she broke the surface of the water, having been swimming under it. Her eyes hardened, and at this unexpected force Éomer managed only an awkward smile, before she turned away with her nose in the air.

This did not go unnoticed. As Lothíriel swam determinedly away, Amrothos approached, shaking water from his hair and getting droplets in Éomer's face.

"She must like you," he said. "Otherwise she would say she dislikes you to your face, instead of ignoring you."

Éomer did not find this particularly encouraging, though he did laugh at it. "Your sister holds a grudge," he said, easily guessing the cause. "I removed her from the army to march on the Black Gate."

"Ahhh," Amrothos nodded. "I understand better now."

"Better?"

"Yes; I recall her arguing with Father when he mentioned that you would be staying with us. Something about…I do not rightly remember, actually." Amrothos's brows creased in thought. "But whatever it was, she was not happy."

Éomer's eyes flitted to where Lothíriel's pale form was just visible above the water before dipping below again. He could not understand the strange regret he was having; why did it matter if this girl did not like him? There was no reason for it to affect him.

Though, he did not have such a grudge against her himself. In fact, he quite liked her family and from what he knew of her, she was spirited and brave, which he admired. It was unfortunate she misunderstood his actions so. If only she knew the obligation to Imrahil which Éomer had been acting upon, to care for his friend's daughter as he would his own kin. But perhaps that would only anger her more.

Still, Éomer remained troubled at Lothíriel's disregard. It felt unfair, and he certainly would not mind knowing her better. Any offspring of Imrahil would have quality to be worth befriending. After all, Elphir was wise, Erchirion dutiful, and Amrothos light-hearted. And what was Lothíriel?

They swam until the sun turned from pleasant to hot, and high above them marked the noon hour. Eventually they dragged themselves out, soaking and red-cheeked from the sun's rays, and walked slowly back to the palace to allow their clothes to dry. Lothíriel hung back from Éomer and her brothers during this, and he could not help glancing back at her forlorn form.

The shade of the palace courtyard was well-received by all of them, a welcome respite. But their laughter was stalled, as they turned into the east corridor and met with Imrahil, who was walking west with several bindings of parchment. He stopped, lifting his brows at his children and Éomer, who shifted guiltily as they paused to greet him.

"The sea must have been agreeable today," was all the prince said, and there was a hint of a smile. "Éomer, we shall have to see about getting you a salve; you look positively burnt."

Éomer smiled gratefully, and then winced at the sting in his face.

"I wish for all to join me for luncheon, after you have washed up." Imrahil said.

"Thank you," Éomer said quickly, and briefly wondered if he should not have wasted the morning when he could have been working. He determined to make up for it.

"I cannot, Father; I told Finiel I would return to take luncheon with her and the children," Elphir said.

"Nor can I, Father," Lothíriel spoke up quickly, the first time she had said anything in Éomer's presence all morning. Her cheeks were red, and it seemed a different flush than from the sun.

Imrahil lifted a brow at his daughter, and after an uncomfortable moment, said, "You are to come specially, Lothíriel. You are not obliged anywhere else." His voice was uncharacteristically hard, and Éomer wondered at it. Then he decided it was, really, none of his concern.

The prince continued onward after a few more pleasantries, and Lothíriel turned into a different corridor with her head bowed, walking swiftly away from them. Elphir also changed course, and three were left to continue on to their respective chambers.

Éomer's clothing was quite dry by this time, but still he changed from the crusty, sandy garments into clean ones, taking only a moment to wash the grit from his body and his hair. Since the prince's sons appeared to dress casually in their own home, he took his queue from them, and dressed in simple buckskin breeches and a loose linen tunic.

His boots did present a problem; they were filled with sand. He eventually shook them out on the terrace, brushing the sand off the leather and into the sea below, and decided it would suffice.

Imrahil's private chambers were huge and airy; an open terrace easily the size of Éomer's entire guest chamber was set with tables and victuals for the meal. Wooden chairs were placed around the largest of the tables, and as the prince waved for him to sit, Éomer took a seat with eyes wide from the splendor. The view was spectacular; gulls cried above, and the lovely breeze he could feel even from his own balcony freshened the setting.

Erchirion and Amrothos were chatting, dishing out cold meats and cheeses, and Imrahil began to ply Éomer with bread and wine. Everything was delicious. It really was lovely to be in this new city, and he began to ponder why he had ever been reluctant to leave Rohan, even for such a short time…

The air shifted by him, and he smelled something flowery. Éomer glanced up to see a beautiful woman, dressed in a simple blue frock, curtsying to Imrahil. He wondered vaguely who she was, and returned to the far more interesting meal in front of him.

"Come sit, daughter," the prince said.

Éomer choked on a bite of bread, and eyes watering, he felt Imrahil thump him on the back. He reached for his wineglass, drinking too quickly but managing to clear his throat.

While this had been happening, the woman, who looked a far cry from the Lothíriel Éomer knew (and he was certain Imrahil had no other daughters), took the final empty chair, which happened to be between himself and Erchirion. When he could gaze over at her again, he took more note of her glossy black hair, falling down her back in curls. A flush was spread across her cheeks and down to her shapely neck. Where was the ranger?

The one similarity between ranger and lady was her cold-set expression; she did not return Éomer's attention, and frostily began to serve herself from the platters. Anticipating her actions, he quickly picked up a plate of cheese from his far side and held it to her.

Lothíriel paused, and then her eyes dragged upwards to meet his. He had forgotten how piercingly grey they were, and he felt a pleasant swoop in his stomach.

"Thank you, Lord," she said coolly, and took the platter. Their fingers brushed, and Éomer clenched a fist underneath the table.

"You are most welcome, Lady," he said. Had this exchanged been noticed? He glanced at the others at the table—all three were engaged in a conversation which involved the names of people he did not know. That was very good then.

"Tell me," Éomer said, striving for friendliness. "Did your winter pass smoothly?"

"Not at all." Her words were level, and her eyes fastened on her luncheon. "Father sent me to live with my aunt. She and I do not get along."

"Ah."

Lothíriel cast him a disparaging look. "It might have been different, had I been allowed to fight at the Black Gate."

Éomer thought this to be a pretty far reach. He leaned forward in irritation, jaw hardening. "Lady, it was horrific," he said, his voice low. "I do not know what account you could have had otherwise. Whatever beauty you find in war—it was not there. Not even for a moment."

A light sparked in her eyes. "I cannot believe it," she said, utterly sure of herself. "You must not have seen the—the—the honor and sacrifice, the selflessness and virtue and devotion—"

"No," he said blandly. He regretted continuing the topic; on this beautiful day the last thing he wished was to speak of the horrors of that final battle. Lothíriel turned her head away, and without another word began to eat. Éomer let loose a breath, and did the same.

The remainder of the meal passed more pleasantly; eventually Imrahil noticed that they were out of the conversation, and he drew them into a discussion regarding whether longbows or shortbows were best suited for cavalry. Lothíriel grew especially animated about this, and passionately defended longbows having the better range and therefore being more useful even when the soldier was on foot. Her brothers disagreed—or, Éomer suspected—pretended to disagree, simply to rile her up. It almost seemed unfair, but as a brother himself, Éomer joined in. The Riders of Rohan traditionally favored shortbows, after all.

Eventually Imrahil was forced to cease the discussion, and servants began to clear away the remains of the meal. "Erchirion, stay with me this afternoon," he told his second son. "I am in need of a scribe for this morning's reports. Amrothos—"

"I am needed elsewhere," he said quickly, though he was grinning.

His father returned the smile. "You shall scribe for me when everyone else in Arda is beneath the ground," he said lightly. "You may go; do not forget you are to captain the night guard."

Amrothos's grin faded at this, though he did as he was bade, and farewelled them with a morose expression before leaving the chamber. Imrahil turned then to his daughter. "I would that you take Éomer to the apothecary," he said. "I apologize, my friend—" He turned to Éomer, "—but I cringe every time I see your face. It must be paining considerably."

"I appreciate your concern," Éomer said. "I am unaccustomed to this southern sun, though I have been enjoying it immensely. Thank you for the meal and the company, Imrahil."

"You are welcome, of course." The prince smiled and waved them away.

Lothíriel's expression was surly, but as Éomer caught up with her quick strides in the corridor, she turned to him with a smile. "Now you may tell me," she said. "We are away from my brothers and father; they would not tell me of the battle and they would not wish for me to hear of it. Tell me, Lord! I _know_ there was glory; do not pretend otherwise!"

"I would rather not," Éomer said, and the intriguing notion of passing a few minutes with the lady grew suddenly unpleasant.

"Oh, please! I must know; I can handle it—"

He stopped where he was, and startled, Lothíriel did too. She blinked, liveliness quite gone, as he glared down at her. "There is no reason for you to seek out such—such _awfulness_ ," he growled. "I will _not_ oblige you."

Her lips curled into a snarl. "Are you a coward, then?" she said, deathly soft.

Éomer took a step forward without meaning to, and Lothíriel was pressed against the wall. She glared up at him, and he glared back.

"You know nothing of war," he said roughly, and pointed a finger in her face. "If you did, you would not wish to speak of it. Do you really wonder why your brothers do not speak of it? Why I do not speak of it? Can you truly believe it is because we are keeping some wonderful, glorious truth from you?"

Lothíriel's jaw was clenched, and Éomer noticed a slight shudder in her shoulders as her eyes continued to bore into his.

"If you had any lick of sense, you would not mention it again," he said, and at once the anger left him, almost as immediately as it had surfaced. He realized how close he was standing to her—he could see the freckles across her nose, and the dark lashes that framed her eyes. Her beautiful grey eyes, baleful as they were at present. How could such a lovely woman be so…so contentious and hell-bent on warfare?

"Fine," she muttered, and Éomer blinked in astonishment at her compliance. "Fine!" she said again, more forcibly. "If that is the way the men would have it—I do not truly have a choice, now do I?"

"I suppose not," Éomer said bitingly.

Lothíriel continued to glower, and a strange, overpowering and overwhelming urge to kiss her pouting lips gave Éomer pause. How in Arda could he wish to kiss such a termagant? She'd as like slap him as return a kiss.

"But on one condition."

He blinked at this unexpected response.

She hesitated for only a moment. Then, "Teach me to use a shortbow on horseback."

A stunned silence. Then, he could not help it: he laughed. It was her turn for surprise, and he rather liked the way her eyes widened. They were _very_ pretty eyes, and evidently affected him to no small degree.

"Very well. Find a shortbow, and I shall teach you."


	4. Chapter 4

_3 July 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

There was a knock at the door, and Imrahil ceased speaking to look up. Éomer took a moment longer to remove his attention from the map over which they had been poring, but when he did, he saw a page in the doorway bowing low.

"Your daughter is outside, my lord."

"I am busy," Imrahil said, his voice cool. "I will see her before supper tonight."

The page shifted awkwardly, and then said, "She wishes to speak to King Éomer, my lord."

Éomer had not expected to be drawn into this, he blinked in confusion for a moment, feeling the weighty curiosity in Imrahil's eyes. He met the prince's gaze—the prince shrugged, and Éomer spoke. "By all means, send her in."

Their discussion on the excavation of the Dimholt Pass could wait a few minutes, he decided. He sunk further into his chair at the table, which was laden with maps and stationary, but Imrahil stayed on his feet, pacing the chamber instead. Another knock, and then Lothíriel's head peeped in.

"Come quickly, child." Imrahil said, gesturing for her to enter.

She sidled in, her cheeks flushed, and to her chest she clutched a short bow. Not just any short bow, either, and utterly astonished, Éomer cried, "Where did you procure that bow, Lady?"

"From one of your men, Lord," Lothíriel said, and her chin set in a determined line despite her obvious nervousness. "Elfhelm, he said he was called."

"And by what arts?"

"By asking!" Her voice grew in confidence, and her brows furrowed. "Not by witchcraft, if that is what you mean."

"That is _not_ what I mean," Éomer said patiently. "I wish to know how in Béma's name my Marshal would have agreed to part with a bow I have never seen him ride without."

Now a smirking smile crossed Lothíriel's face, and he almost returned it—but he caught himself. "I found him in the barracks, playing dice with some other men," she said. "I asked if anyone had a short bow I might borrow. They asked why. I told them that their king had promised to teach me."

A groan caught itself in Éomer's throat.

"Then Elfhelm laughed and told me I might borrow his. He said—" Here she paused, and licked her lips. "He said that to see such a thing would be worth the risk of losing it."

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Imrahil bury his face in one of his hands. Éomer might have laughed, if he did not feel so ill with nerves. What a situation Lothíriel had crafted for him! "You have insured my tutorship," he said blandly. "For if you are not the finest shot in Arda at the end of it, I shall never have a peaceful moment from my men again."

"I will be," Lothíriel said fervently, her eyes brightened. "I swear it, Lord!"

Éomer had no words, but stared in utter bafflement at this girl.

"Is that all, daughter?" Imrahil spoke after an uncomfortable moment.

She shifted her weight. "Er—no; I only wished to ask King Éomer when we might begin practicing."

"Tomorrow morning," Éomer improvised, and then grinned as he added, "If you can wait so long."

Lothíriel returned the smile, which transformed her face from the stubborn expression she usually wore into something quite pretty. He did not realize that he was staring—though in his defense, she was staring back. Imrahil cleared his throat. His daughter flushed pink, curtseyed gawkily, and darted from the room. The door banged shut behind her. A silence followed.

"Well, I say," Imrahil said mildly, clasping his hands behind his back. "I have never witnessed Lothíriel so compliant."

Éomer glanced up, but no further explanation was immediately forthcoming. Then the prince sighed, and strode to the table to take his own seat. He did not turn his attention to the map, instead leaning forward and keeping his earnest gaze upon Éomer.

"I love my daughter," he said. "Do not misunderstand me. But...since her mother passed seven years ago, we have had many differences. I thought that allowing Lothíriel to find her own place in the world, as a Ranger of Ithilien as she so greatly desired, would be just the thing." Now his expression darkened, and Éomer wondered, with some discomfort, why Imrahil was confiding in him.

"It was not the case. Her confidence and self-assurance grew, yes, but as did her thirst for glory and—I am ashamed to say it—her tactlessness."

Éomer hid a smile. Tactless was certainly one way of describing the lady. Imrahil sighed and sat back in his chair, and his expression softened. "I am nearly out of ideas of what to do with her. Lothíriel cannot go through life as free from care as she is now. Her winter with my sister was an utter failure."

Éomer's discomfort increased at this, especially as Imrahil continued to fixate him with his piercing eyes.

"I do not know why I tell you this," the prince said thoughtfully. Éomer privately agreed and wished he had not, but Imrahil continued, "Perhaps it is simply to give you some understanding of my daughter. I have been seeking another place for her; for to a young, vibrant woman her birthplace is obsolete. Do you think this is the right course of action?"

The question felt like a battering ram against Éomer's conscience. How could he respond? He was in no position to counsel a Gondorian noble with years more experience—and on being a father, no less!

"I cannot say for sure," he said carefully. "I have no daughter of my own. But—I daresay a positive influence may teach Lothíriel some tact."

Imrahil nodded slowly, and then grinned. "A very diplomatic answer. I expected nothing less."

Éomer smiled in relief.

"Now, I think we have abandoned our task for too long." And they returned to the maps, though the memory of Lothíriel's lovely smile did not quite leave Éomer's mind's eye.

* * *

 _4 July 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Éomer leaned forward, resting his arms on the pommel of his saddle as he watched Lothíriel ahead of him. They were stopped at a target in the prince's training yard, and she brushed the short bow against the neck of her mare, then the other side. She pulled another arrow from her quiver and again touched it to her mare. Being already accustomed to her mistress shooting with a long bow, the steed did not flinch, and stood patiently as Lothíriel continued her paces.

He was pleased; in fact, more than pleased. The impetuous nature he had witnessed in Lothíriel was completely absent when it came to her training; she had listened intently to his instructions and obeyed without question. She had, she'd confided in him, taken the bow out the previous afternoon to test the strength herself, so that her potential ineptitude would not startle her mare. It amazed Éomer that she had not made mention of the weight it pulled; Elfhelm was no mean archer, and as far as he could tell, she had not switched bowstrings.

Lothíriel drew the arrow on the string several times, the mare's ears twitched. Then she lifted the bow high, her back straight and her shoulders relaxed, and let loose the arrow.

It was far too high, and flew past the target. Éomer blinked; she had not yet missed a single shot. Then he heard an unmistakable _thunk_ , and through the high trees beyond the training ring, a hanging target swung lazily, arrow in the center.

"A very good job, Gilroch," he heard the lady say, and she ruffled the mare's mane. Gilroch responded by whinnying softly, and Éomer grinned. He was more impressed then he would dare let on; if she did become the best saddle archer in Arda, it would have very little to do with him. He hoped that Elfhelm was watching, all the same.

"Well, that completes the course," Éomer said aloud, and Lothíriel nudged her mare around so that they faced one another. She was smiling with the satisfaction of her success, and it was impossible not to return. Firefoot shifted his footing restlessly with a snort, and Éomer absently patted his neck.

"It is a very short course," she told him. "Swan Knights generally favor swords and spears."

"That is well and fine; but you shall have to take the course again. If you are ready to do it at a walk…"

Her eyes sparkled. "Oh, may I? Are we ready?"

"I think so. Your Gilroch is a very stalwart mare; have you had her long?"

"Yes, my father gave her to me when I was but twelve." Lothíriel's brows creased slightly, and Éomer wondered at it. It seemed that there were some unresolved feelings between Imrahil and his daughter, but really, it was none of his business. He did not like to see the breach, however.

Before he could think of an appropriate response, Firefoot shifted underneath him, and stretched out neck proudly towards Gilroch as if to nip. Surprised, Éomer was slow to respond, but straightened in the saddle, tugging on the reins. Firefoot resisted, huffing as he tried to reach the mare.

"Behave!" Éomer snapped. Eventually the stallion quieted, though there was a definite churlishness as he reluctantly turned 'round at Éomer's command. He urged Firefoot back towards the start of the course, and Lothíriel followed. He glanced back at her and saw her blushing furiously; Gilroch was pulling at her bit.

Oh, Béma. This was the last thing he needed.

It was in a stoic silence that they reached the start of the course. After replenishing her quiver, Lothíriel urged Gilroch into a steady walk, and after only a moment's hesitation from the mare, they began again.

Éomer considered briefly staying back and allowing Firefoot to regain his composure, but truthfully he wished to see how the lady would fare at a walk. He took the inner track; some five feet to the back and five feet to the right of the main shooting track, and at this distance Firefoot seemed to handle himself decently. This gave Éomer some relief, but he knew that this problem would have to be dealt with.

Lothíriel and Gilroch performed superbly at a walk; Éomer found no fault with the lady's posture nor her attention to her mount. This time the course was completed in a little under ten minutes, and at the end he called out from a safe distance,

"You have little use for me any longer, Lady."

She turned Gilroch around, who immediately began prancing in place. A stern word from Lothíriel, and the mare quieted, though her flank was clearly trembling.

"I thank you for your teaching, Lord," Lothíriel said to him, and so far away he could not see her smile as well as he would have liked.

"You make an admirable student." There was silence for a moment, and then Firefoot arched his neck, snorting loudly and pawing at the ground. "I ought to head back," Éomer said, though he wished he did not have to. It had been a pleasanter morning than he had expected.

"Very well."

"I would not take her faster than a walk just yet," he added. "Perhaps a canter, tomorrow."

"Oh, thank you, Lord! Will you come again? I—" She stopped, her brows drawn together, and then straightened her shoulders. "I do not want to make any mistakes."

Éomer grinned. "Surely I will. I may borrow a mount, though."

"You might ask Elfhelm." Even from a distance, he could hear the laughter in Lothíriel's voice. "He seems willing to invest in my training!"

He chuckled along at this, and after raising his arm in farewell, set Firefoot back towards the stables, spurring the stallion into a gallop. Perhaps that would ease some of his angst.

But Firefoot was little inclined to returning to his stable stall, and after a brief discussion with an ostler, he led his steed into a private paddock. There, at least, there were no mares, and Firefoot would not rile up any other horse. Éomer unsaddled him as he buried his nose in the trough of oats, feeling ungrateful.

"Do you know," he told the horse, brushing down his steed's sleek grey coat with a old rag. "It is not really good manners to try to get with a mare from your host's stables."

Firefoot snorted into the feedbox, and ignored his master.

* * *

 _A/N: There is some confusion (completely warranted) regarding Lothiriel. Why, if being trained as a ranger, does she stay at home and do whatever she wants? Well! Let me tell you. Following the war, the need for soldiers and rangers lessened considerably. Many were kept for various defenses. And many were discharged. Lothiriel was one of the second group._

 _I decided this when I was writing the story, but somehow the explanation didn't make it anywhere IN the story. It just stayed in my mind. My fault, guys, and I apologize. But it's good to have a learning curve._


	5. Chapter 5

_4 July 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

"And the most damning part is— the _Mearas_ will only breed with one mate for the entirety of their lives."

A stunned silence, and then Erchirion and Amrothos burst into howling laughter. Éomer was grateful for this; despite his own annoyance at the situation, he was glad that his friends could see the humor in it. He could not, not yet. This was Firefoot's first apparent inclination towards breeding—to a mare owned by Lothíriel, and which could not simply be taken back to the Mark to mate. It was no small matter.

He felt rather ill as he considered it. There were so few _Mearas_ left; Firefoot had been the second-to-last born of the previous mating pair, and the last—Eowyn's own mare—was in Ithilien, and if she did choose to breed, the offspring would be absorbed into Faramir's herds.

Putting the matter to the back of his mind, Éomer glanced out at the sea below, sipping the spiced wine so unique to Dol Amroth. They were lounging on his guest balcony, watching the vibrantly orange sunset casting its rays across the sea, turning it from blue to golden. It fascinated him… Just as Imrahil's daughter fascinated him. She had been in his thoughts all day, and not only relating to their horses showing signs of wishing to breed.

"I can only imagine Lothíriel's face," Amrothos said with a dreamy sigh, and Éomer chuckled as he was drawn back to the present.

"She was quite red," Éomer admitted. "But to be fair—I was embarrassed, too."

"Will you breed them, do you think?" Erchirion's question was sensible enough, and it gave Éomer pause. He did not know _what_ to do; there were such traditions and strictures relating to the breeding of _Mearas_. That Firefoot had apparently found a mate was well enough, and certainly the timing was nothing to complain of, only that the mare would remain in Dol Amroth and so the offspring would, too. Éomer briefly considered asking to buy Gilroch from Imrahil, but he could see Lothíriel's fiery scowl all too well in his mind's eye. She would never forgive him. And a bond between rider and steed should never be broken…

"There are too many variables." Amrothos interrupted before Éomer could speak, and there was a devilish glint in his eyes. "What with location and ownership and such. The best assurance for the _Mearas_ would be for Éomer to marry Lothíriel and take both her and the mare back to Rohan. That way our sister would not have to lose her horse."

Erchirion, mid-drink, spluttered and choked on his wine; Éomer stared at his friend for a moment before registering what he had said.

"Marry Lothíriel?" he asked, his voice raising slightly. " _Lothíriel_? Your sister?"

Amrothos was laughing loudly; he was enjoying this far too much. "Yes, our Lothíriel," he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "The one who can out-belch most soldiers and has more weaponry in her chambers than books."

Both of these points were new information for Éomer, and he shook his head. "I cannot marry your sister," he said. "She'd as like kill me as kiss me." But a seed of doubt at this wriggled in his mind; she had been awfully nice to him that day, in fact, ever since he had agreed to teach her to shoot a short bow. So she had a weakness—it did not signify. Everyone did.

"But would it not just wipe the smile off Aunt Ivriniel's face?" Amrothos was sighing wistfully again. "That old bat—she hates Lothíriel, and for what? Lothíriel giving back exactly what she gives? Ha! Seeing her niece married to a king would certainly tweak Aunt's nose."

Éomer did not know this Aunt Ivriniel, but he did recall something Lothíriel had mentioned a few days earlier: _Father sent me to live with my aunt over the winter. She and I do not get along._

"I do not see what Lothíriel gains from such a union," Erchirion pointed out. "She likes her freedom, and if she were queen she lose most of it to duties and station."

"Well—the marriage is simply for convenience. She shall need a place to sleep, anyway. It is all about the horses, right, Éomer?" Amrothos grinned at him, and Éomer stared back, unable to speak. "Besides—it is in _our_ best interest, Erchirion. Once Éomer is good and wed, the ladies will remember that _we_ are far more handsome and desirable any day."

Erchirion laughed. "You speak for yourself, brother. I am going to wed Darnith in the spring."

"Oh yes, I had forgotten. It does leave me with less competition," Amrothos said with a gloating smile, and rubbed his hands together. "The ladies will simply have to fall at my feet."

This gave something Éomer to laugh over, for he could not have laughed for the last several moments, and the conversation shifted to more general topics. Eventually a tide of relief helped him to relax; it seemed that Amrothos was done teasing at the moment.

But his luck was not to last.

When the brothers at last stood to leave, after the sun had gone completely and the sea had turned a deep blue before the moon rose over it, they invited Éomer for a morning ride on the beach with themselves and their sister. He readily agreed, and as they stood to part, Amrothos gave one last parting shot.

"You had better make sure you win any races against Lothíriel," he advised with a grin. "She would never wed second-best."

And these were the uncomfortable thoughts Éomer was left with.

* * *

 _5 July 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Éomer chewed on the seagrass, his arm over his eyes as he lounged on the sandy beach, only half-listening to the prince's children. Firefoot was snuffling around nearby, looking for more of the grass to munch on, and thankfully paying Lothíriel's mare no heed. Gilroch was tied to a tree some distance away, and with the wind blowing lazily to the northeast, they hadn't scented each other—and so Éomer relaxed.

It was quite pleasant, with the smell of the sea and the gentle sound of the lapping tide, and the lulling satisfaction from having _nearly_ won the race that morning. He had beaten both Erchirion and Amrothos, at least. It would have been hard to outrace Lothíriel, though; she was far lighter than him, and Gilroch was trained for speed—as opposed to Firefoot, who could endure a swift pace for hours at need.

The race to an old, dead tree, bleached white from the sun—a landmark of the prince's beaches for a century or more (so Erchirion had told him)—had been a source of great excitement for them all. Éomer had rather liked the way Lothíriel laughed, pleased beyond measure by her winning.

"Hie there!" she'd shouted at her brothers. "Think twice before you challenge me again!"

With her black hair flying all over the place, plaits whipped away by her speed, she was a wild sight—and an attractive one. Her grey eyes nearly turned blue with the sea behind her, and her smile for Éomer had been especially joyous then. He had been hard-pressed to take his eyes from her, even when Amrothos caught sight of him, and grinned knowingly.

Feeling wise to take himself away, Éomer had unsaddled Firefoot and brushed the sweat from his coat with some grass, and then laid down on the beach to cool himself down. It was not quite noon, and in the shady protection of the sparse, unfamiliar trees which grew on the ridge where the grasslands met the beach, he began to pay heed to a set of footsteps approaching.

A huff of breath, and the sound of someone sitting upon the sand next to him. Éomer peeked open an eye to see Lothíriel, and was completely unsurprised. She gazed out at the sea with her brows drawn together, and he closed his eyes again.

"Brothers are simply the worst creatures!" she burst out without preamble. "I won that race perfectly fair, and yet Amrothos seeks to find a way to disqualify me! I committed no wrongs—you can agree with me on that, I am sure!"

Éomer mumbled something noncommittally.

"What did _I_ ever do to deserve such cruelty, I cannot think."

"I suspect he is only trying to goad you, which is clearly working," he said after a moment, taking the grass from his mouth and flicking it away. "As a brother myself, I can speak with some authority."

There was silence. Then in a subdued voice, "I did not mean to offend you by my earlier comment, Lord. I was not thinking."

"No harm done," Éomer assured her. Indeed, how could he—knowing of her impulsive nature—be offended by it? He thought he knew this lady well enough now to judge that she meant little of what she said in the heat of a moment. She was not the first person he knew with a temper.

He sat up, dusting the sand from his sleeves as he glanced around to find the prince's sons. Amrothos was several feet away, climbing a tall tree Éomer did not recognize, and Erchirion stood at the base of it—likely warning his brother against it. This made Éomer smile, and then he noticed Lothíriel's eyes upon him.

"Do you have your own short bow?" she asked.

Éomer took a moment to refocus his thoughts (this woman's mind jumped around far too quickly!), and then nodded in assent.

"Perhaps before you leave—back for Rohan, I mean—we can shoot against each other." The notion of a competition was putting light in the lady's eyes, and her earlier annoyance was gone. "We could set up a temporary course and everything. One that is more of a challenge!"

"If you like," he said with good humor.

Her expression transformed in a moment—anxiety creased her brows, and she frowned. "I am being too forward," Lothíriel said. "Father says...never mind. You do not have to agree, Lord, if you do not wish."

"I do not mind."

"I cannot resist competitions, wagers, or bets," she continued, ticking off the list on her slender fingers. "And so I propose them far too often. It is a failing of mine."

"I see."

"Do _you_ think that is a failing?"

Éomer contemplated the lady in front of him for a moment, stroking his beard. "It _can_ be, but that does not mean that it _is_. It rather depends on how you use it." He felt very wise, and could not help grinning. Lothíriel, in turn, looked struck by this, and stared at him aghast.

"You are teasing me!" she cried. "You are no better than my brothers, Lord!"

Again, he took this with a grain of salt. Smiling at her scowl, he said, "I have a younger sister myself, Lady. How can I resist? You are very easy to tease."

Her scowl darkened.

"Come now! It is hardly a day to be speaking of such a heavy topic, anyhow. Look! The sea is lovely and the sun is bright."

Lothíriel turned to look to where he was gesturing. Her face softened, and then she returned his smile at last. "I deserved that, Lord, and I apologize. I daresay you are courteous enough to be plain about your teasing, instead of irking me for the sake of irking."

Éomer gave a longsuffering sigh. "But even I am not perfect, and do sometimes give in to my brotherly inclinations of harassment for no good reason."

She laughed then, and oh how she laughed! He had never heard her laugh before. The lovely sound made him grin with satisfaction for having caused it, and wishing to bring her such humor again and again. He wondered at this feeling, and then brushed it away. But before he could say anything else, there was a bellow from Amrothos, and they both jumped.

"Lothíriel! I need your help!"

Éomer turned at the same time the lady did, and chuckled to himself. Amrothos was still in the tall tree, but he was visibly stuck. He held his arms and legs 'round the trunk, looking strained.

"Slide down the tree, you prat!" Was Lothíriel's blunt, shouted response.

"I know that!" Amrothos snapped back. "But I still want a _ferna_." He motioned with his head towards the top of the tree, some twenty feet above him. Éomer surmised that _ferna_ was the brown fruit at the top, and clearly Amrothos's goal from the onset.

"It is clearly not a tree that ought to be climbed," Erchirion interjected. "Lothíriel, even you. There are hardly any handholds above Amrothos."

There was a flurry of sand as Lothíriel stood abruptly, and began to stalk towards her brothers. Éomer could only blink at this sudden change. Amrothos was smiling gleefully, and began to slide down the tree. There was some wincing, but he alighted looking only a bit stiff. Erchirion's brows were drawn as his sister approached the trunk of the tree.

Éomer did not want to miss this.

He stood as well, and joined the prince's sons by the _ferna_ tree. In the time it took him, Lothíriel had begun to scramble up the tree—already she was halfway to the top. Barefooted and with her riding breeches rolled up, she looked a positive rapscallion. Éomer grinned.

"If she is hurt, Father will have our heads," Erchirion said dully.

"Lothíriel is more than a match for a lousy _ferna_ tree," Amrothos objected.

"I agree with Amrothos." Éomer did not move his eyes from the lady. She was now perched at the top of the tree, and made quick work of detaching the fruit. She glanced down, and then dropped one towards Amrothos, He caught it, grinning. Lothíriel dropped two for Erchirion, who appeared less than pleased, and at last, she aimed one towards Éomer. It was heavy in his hands.

Together the four of them sat on the beach and feasted on the _ferna_ (Lothíriel having climbed down the tree without any difficulty, much to Erchirion's relief). It was refreshing after the morning ride, and the sun was making the beach warm. The _ferna_ shells were tossed into the sea, and then Erchirion insisted that they ride back.

"It is nearing noon," he said. "And we told Father we would only be absent for a few hours."

This did tug at Éomer's sense of duty towards his host, but he was torn. He found the beach incredibly pleasant, and after so many months of _duty, duty, duty_ , the company of Imrahil's lively children lifted his spirits. But he would be in Dol Amroth for several days yet...there would be more time for adventures.

And to decide what to do about his stallion.

* * *

 _6 July 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

It was now past midnight, but Éomer had no inclination to return to his chamber.

The full moon, looking larger in the dark sky than it did in Rohan, was shining silver on the sea below. There was a pale moon path on the water which seemed to follow him no matter the angle he viewed it from. He had left his room an hour or so earlier, unable to sleep and believing that walking the corridors would exhaust him—now he was too enamored of the moon to move. The alcove he was standing in to gaze out to the sea provided an excellent view indeed.

He liked Dol Amroth and the sea—perhaps even too much. Éomer wondered if there was a sort of spell in the air.

There was a swishing of clothing behind him, and startled, he whirled around. A figure jumped back, pressing a hand to her heart. They stared at each other, momentarily speechless.

" _Ai_!" Lothíriel exclaimed, her eyes wide and breathing heavily. "What in Arda? Why are you skulking in the shadows?"

"Why did you sneak upon me?" Éomer asked in annoyance, his voice echoing in the empty corridor.

Another awkward silence followed as they continued to measure one another. He was surprised to see Lothíriel wearing a dressing gown over a nightdress; somehow he would have guessed, had he ever had cause to consider it, that she would wear leggings to sleep. Her hair was plaited back in a single braid, which was slung over her shoulder and lay on her breast. She looked as though she had not yet slept—there were dark circles under her eyes, and the tiredness that rimmed them probably matched his own. Her eyes reflected silver with the moonlight shining in her face, and then her brows drew together.

"I apologize, Lord," she said stiffly. "I did not think—that is, usually there are no others awake."

"Usually? You do this often?"

She pursed her lips together, and then sighed. "I cannot sleep during a full moon."

Éomer blinked. "Is that...normal?"

"I do not know. I have heard—" Lothíriel clasped her hands in front of her. "It is said that the elven blood in the line of Dol Amroth causes sensitivity to such things as the moon. Stars, even. Other facets of nature."

"Oh! Is that true? I have never heard of it."

"Indeed." Then she added, almost shyly, "Amrothos can always tell where he is, just by looking at the stars. I know of no others who have such an instinct. My grandfather could supposedly see in the pitch black of night with no trouble."

Éomer grinned. "Those sound far more useful."

Lothíriel's smile was tight as she regarded him. "You need not needle me, Lord. I feel the affects of my moon-induced sleeplessness keenly enough already."

"I apologize for teasing."

"I accept your apology." They stared at each other, and Lothíriel turned to move away, drawing her folded arms across her chest.

"Wait," Éomer said. She paused. "Stay with me, for a while," he improvised. "Company may do us good." Lothíriel's hesitation was clear. But she nodded nonetheless, and walked forward to join him in the alcove. He turned his eyes back to the moon.

"They say that if you follow the moon's path, you will find your heart's desire," Lothíriel said after a moment.

"And is it true?"

"None who have sailed it have ever returned."

Whatever spell there seemed to be drawing Éomer to the sea, his logic was not affected. It seemed to him a very unlikely tale. Such dreamers were probably at the bottom of the ocean. "Well?" he asked for sake of conversation and curiosity of the puzzling woman beside him. "Are you going to tell me what you would find at the end of the moon path?"

Lothíriel's answer was immediate. "A place where I would be useful, Lord, instead of reprimanded for following my spirit."

"Can that not be found here?"

"No."

Éomer regarded her, and then asked, "Our experiences are quite different, then. Why can you not be content with the world, Lady?"

"Because I have no place in it." She turned her face away from him, ever so slightly, and he wondered if she hid tears. But her voice did not waver.

"Make one," he said daringly. Lothíriel's eyes darted to him—glistening, but cold on his face.

"You oversimplify," she said.

"And you complicate."

"I am a ranger," she burst out. "But there is no war to fight! I am the daughter of a man with three elder sons; I am no use to him! My blood is noble so I cannot have an occupation other than _lady_. I have no use, Lord, and there can be no change for me!"

Éomer considered this. "You could marry," he said. He did not know what possessed him to say this; it was not the sort of topic one broached with women of acquaintance. But his eyes were on her face, to watch for the shift in her expression.

" _Marry_?" Lothíriel asked in surprise. "Me? I am too young."

"And you are…?"

"I am twenty-one years of age."

"That is not so young." Éomer decided he ought not to mention that his own mother was wed and her son born when Théodwyn was merely twenty. Lothíriel gave him a most unimpressed look.

"And what are your parameters for judgement?" she asked. "You cannot be more than twenty-five years. And still young, I should think."

"I am twenty-nine, Lady. And—oh!" He made a great show of putting a hand on his back and grimacing. "Already I feel old age creeping upon me. Alas! My days are numbered."

An astonished silence, and then Lothíriel burst into laughter. Just as it had earlier in the day, Éomer's heart thumped strangely and he could not help grinning at the sound. She was unabashed when she laughed, and the way her smile crinkled the eyes at the corners was completely adorable. Without thinking, Éomer caught hold of her 'round the waist and pulled her close. Immediately the laughter ceased, and she stared up at him with wide eyes, lips parted as her breath caught mid-giggle.

Éomer wasted not a moment more, and kissed her.

It was obvious to him that she had never before been kissed; her lips were unyielding and unmoving, and her form was limp in his arms. He was also fairly certain that she was not breathing. But she was sweet to his taste, and the scent of her skin most enticing. Éomer drew back despite his instinct not to, loosening his grip.

Lothíriel trembled, their eyes locked together. Her cheeks were bright red. She opened and closed her mouth—once, twice, and then with a strangling noise in her throat, turned on her heel and ran. The dark corridor swallowed her, and her swift footsteps faded from hearing.

Éomer decided not to be offended by this. He had shocked her, probably, and she was clearly entirely innocent. In fact, he probably ought not to have kissed her at all. Considering her temperament, he was fortunate she had not cuffed him across the head. Perhaps she was more embarrassed than anything. Would she ever face him again?

He hoped so.


	6. Chapter 6

_7 July T.A., Dol Amroth_

"Éomer, there is something we must discuss."

Éomer, immersed in a contract proposal from one of the many merchants in Dol Amroth, took a moment to realize he was being spoken to. He glanced up, and saw Imrahil's unusually solemn and silver clad figure paused by the hearth. The prince had been kind to share his study with Éomer, and they had been involved with business all afternoon.

"What is it?" he asked. But inwardly, he recalled the memory of kissing the prince's daughter, and he hoped it was not that. Béma!

"Erchirion informed me about your stallion and Lothíriel's mare, and their apparent inclination to breed."

Oh, _that_. A much safer topic. Éomer relaxed in his chair, placing down the parchment he had been reading.

"And is it true that the _Mearas_ choose only one mate?" Imrahil asked.

"Indeed, it is." Éomer thought for a moment, and then decided to take a more light-hearted attitude towards the entire thing than perhaps he felt. "If you were wondering why our _Mearas_ herds are shrinking…"

Imrahil gave him a polite smile. "I understand. I wish to extend you an offer to purchase Gilroch."

Éomer stared up at the prince for a moment, and then asked, "Does Lothíriel know of this?"

"She does not. She may choose another horse—but evidently your Firefoot will not."

He did not know what to think. Imrahil's generosity was, as always, staggering. Were the mare not Lothíriel's, Éomer would not hesitate to accept his offer. But even as he considered it, he saw the lady's belligerent grey eyes, blaming him for taking her friend. He did not wish to lose any good relations he had with her. Ever-changing as they were.

"I thank you," he said slowly to Imrahil. "But—it would not sit well on my conscience to separate rider from steed."

The prince's brows shot upwards, and there was a glint of shrewdness in his eyes—so like his daughter's—that Éomer felt uncomfortable, as if Imrahil knew his thoughts. "Is that so?" was all he asked.

"It is taboo, in Rohan." This was close enough the truth that Éomer did not feel guilty for stretching it ever so slightly—bonded pairs were very rarely divided purposefully, but it was not unheard of. Certainly within the realms of possibility.

"Then I apologize for suggesting it," Imrahil said. "I did not mean to offend."

"Oh—I am not offend at all, my friend. I appreciate your concern and kindness."

The prince paused, before, "I know the glory of heritage of the _mearas_ to the Riddermark. I would not want, not in a thousand years, for the bloodline to die away."

"If Firefoot and Gilroch do not breed, it is possible he may find another mate." Éomer did not know the likelihood of this, however. He certainly hoped so, in any case.

Imrahil nodded, and allowed the subject to drop.

The afternoon was wearing on; the west-facing windows in the prince's study were ablaze with the golden orange of the setting sun. Éomer grew tired of reading, and focusing on the small letters became more difficult. His eyes watered. Clearly it was time to take a rest—supper would be held soon. He gathered up the contracts which seemed most likely to take to his marshal to look over later that night. Elfhelm would have an opinion—then again, he usually did.

Imrahil was writing a letter when Éomer stood up to leave, and he glanced up. "I will be a bit longer," he said. "But I shall see you at supper."

"I thank you, Imrahil."

"If you pass a page in the corridor, Éomer—will you have him send Lothíriel to me."

"Indeed I will."

Éomer burned with curiosity as he departed the chamber, but he tempered it. It was none of his concern, after all. He had not had the impression that Imrahil knew of himself and Lothíriel the night before—and if he had, would he not discuss it with Éomer rather than Lothíriel? Unless he blamed Lothíriel, that is…and she certainly was not to blame. If this was Imrahil's purpose, Éomer would confess full responsibility. Yes, that would do—his scruples were settled.

He found a page, and delivered the message.

As was custom in Dol Amroth, Éomer dressed finely for supper, washing away the ink stains on his hands and combing his hair. He was ravenous after such a long afternoon of drivel, and happily contemplated what would be served for the meal.

He was first to arrive in the smallest dining hall, used for smaller family gatherings. But Erchirion soon followed, and engaged him in a conversation regarding warships and sailboats. Éomer had yet to step foot on a boat in the ocean—he suspected an invitation would soon come, and he would take it.

Elphir arrived with his wife and sons, and Amrothos was not far behind. The hall grew lively as servants poured wine and served small tarts of meats and vegetables. Éomer took more than his portion, and felt no shame.

When Imrahil strode through the doors, most of them had grown quite nervous—the prince was never late. Tonight his face was set in cold lines, though he attempted a smile for his progeny. But the discomfort in his eyes did not fade, and he sat at the head of the table, calling for the meal to be served.

Éomer sat, and glanced around. Where was Lothíriel?

She did not appear during the entirety of the meal. Her brothers noticed this, and in a familiar position that Éomer was not, Elphir asked his father where their sister was.

"She will not be joining us tonight," Imrahil said, and his voice was hard. "Éomer, do try the mussels—they are only available for a short time during the year. You may not have the opportunity to try them again."

Éomer was discomfited by this—not the mussels, which were delicious with lemon and herbs—but of Lothíriel's absence. What had transpired between her and Imrahil? Éomer could admit to himself that he had rather looked forward to seeing her tonight; how she was faring after their kiss, and if she was warming towards him. He decided that he should find her after the meal. If she was in any sort of state, perhaps he could help somehow…

By the time the party was dismissed, the corridors had been lit by torches. Éomer declined playing cards with Amrothos, claiming his need to meet with Elfhelm. But it was a lady he was thinking of as he took his leave. He hoped he did not betray his intentions—but none of the prince's family regarded him strangely, and so he thought he must be safe.

Éomer wandered the palace, occasionally passing servants but generally finding himself alone. He had grown somewhat familiar with the layout, and considered himself in little danger of getting lost. There was no indication of the princess the east wing, nor the west. Could she have left the palace? Éomer doubted that somehow.

He turned a corner into the north wing, and muffled sobs met him. He paused, tilting his head, and then continued onward. The crying grew louder.

Tucked in a nook carved into the marble walls, was Lothíriel. She did not notice his approach. Her face was buried in her knees and her arms wrapped around herself, as if for protection. Her shoulders shook, and Éomer realized he did not know what to do. Tears always weakened him and made him foolish.

Well, he had to do something.

He reached out a hand a touched her shoulder, and Lothíriel jerked away. Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed and damp as she stared up at him, and a scowl twisted her lips.

"What are you doing here?" Her raspy voice was accusatory.

"Er—looking for you."

"Well, you have found me. You may report back to my father that I have not disobeyed his orders and run away."

"Run away?"

She wiped her cheeks forcefully with one of her sleeves. "Yes, _run away_ ," Lothíriel said snidely. "Which I _would_ do, if the guards at the gate had not been warned to watch for me."

Éomer blinked, utterly lost.

"Why are you staring at me?" she asked. "Did my father not gloat over his wisdom over supper in finally finding some why to send me away? I expect you were all having a laugh over it."

"I do not know what you are speaking of," Éomer told her. "I assure you I have not been laughing at you at all." Indeed, in her present state it would have been hard to. His gut was wrenching as he witnessed her distress—he did not like to see her cry. Lothíriel looked away from him, taking a steadying breath.

"You look as though you might benefit from fresh air," Éomer said, and held out his hand towards her. "And if I am not mistaken—there is an easy path to the cliffs from somewhere in this corridor."

Her expression was wan, hesitant; she gazed up at him for a moment, causing his heart to race, before taking his hand. He lifted her to her feet. The pull of his eyes to hers startled Éomer a bit. But he smiled, lacing his fingers in hers.

"It shall not be too dark, with the moon," he said.

Lothíriel was quiet as they exited the palace; lost in her thoughts or too uncomfortable to speak, he did not know. But Éomer did not mind. It was quite nice just to be with her. This thought jolted him—when had Lothíriel the Termagant become peaceful company? He realized that she had not treated him unfairly in some days. Her behavior towards him had become friendly. Éomer liked that.

The tops of the cliffs were rife with foliage. During the day there were hundreds of different flowers in every shade imaginable, but now in the darkness there were only dim outlines and heady fragrances. They followed a worn path, which Éomer imagined would be a treat to ride during the day.

Several minutes passed, and the palace sunk behind them.

"My father is sending me to the king's court," Lothíriel said suddenly. Éomer was drawn to the present, and he stared down at her. Her face was turned away towards the sea, but she continued to speak. "He has arranged for me to be a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. She—she is to teach me how to be a lady."

"I see."

"I do not want to go to court." Her voice was now thick with tears. "Not at all! I will make a fool of myself, I know I will. The ladies there are graceful and elegant, and I—I am, well, me."

"Indeed you are," Éomer said gravely.

She burst forth, as if unable to keep from declaring, "I _do_ wish to please and to find a useful economy, even if I am no longer needed to wield a bow in defense of Gondor. But I do not see why it must be the Queen! Any lady could instruct me to be a lady—I could remain here in Dol Amroth, even! Why would I need to know how to be a queen?"

Éomer stroked his beard, unable to keep from smiling at her worried expression. "Maybe some day a king will come along and decide you'll do. Even if you _are_ surly and bad-tempered and liable to bite his head off."

Lothíriel started, and her eyes widened. "Not you, surely."

"Come now! Let us not pretend that you haven't wished to marry me since you laid eyes on me."

His teasing worked—after a moment of stunned silence the lady began to laugh. Success! The tension seemed to go out of her, and when she composed herself she nearer to him, their shoulders brushing. Éomer's skin tingled.

"Then maybe I ought to go," she said, and her eyes were shining. "Though perhaps I can set my sights even further. Do you know if the new king of Dale is unwed?"

"Oh—he would be a poor choice, indeed. The winters that far north are _terrible_ , and would you wish to live so far from your family?"

Lothíriel's brows quirked. "Edoras is far," she pointed out.

"Not as far as Dale."

"Hmm."

A companionable quiet settled upon them as they continued forward. Éomer judged they had gone perhaps a mile, and he wondered how long it would be until Imrahil suspected their absences, or worried for his daughter. Éomer tugged on her hand, and pulled her around.

"This is far enough for me," he said, and then adopted a most mournful expression. "I ate far too much at supper."

Again Lothíriel laughed. Then, she said, "I was going to seek you out earlier in the day, but time got away from me. I wanted to apologize for last night."

"Oh?"

"I—I have never been kissed before. I am sure the experience was quite bad for you."

Éomer bit his lip to keep from laughing. _This_ he did find amusing; the lady wishing to apologize for his probably inappropriate kiss because she thought he had not enjoyed it. "It was not at all bad," he assured her quickly. "In fact, I rather liked it."

Lothíriel stared at him, probably in astonishment. "Oh," she said, in a very small voice.

"It is my experience—that kissing is generally enjoyed no matter the skill of the, er, kissers, as long as there is some sort of affection involved."

"I am sure that _some_ skill is beneficial," she said after a moment.

Éomer grinned. "I will allow the point."

There was a mischievous tilt to her lips as she added, "It seems I shall have to find some tutelage, somehow. I would not wish any more unskilled experiences."

"A tutor! Where shall you find one?"

Lothíriel frowned slightly, and her eyes narrowed up at him. He wondered briefly how they had managed to stay on the path thus far—he was not paying the least bit attention to where they were going.

"I will need a flirting tutor as well," she muttered. "I am _rotten_. There is no chance of my surviving the court in this state of utter ignorance."

"Oh, not at all," Éomer said hastily. "I am to blame—I understood you perfectly. Have I not already confessed my fault of teasing for the sake of teasing, when I ought not to?"

"But you said you did that only rarely."

"And so I do. This is one of those rare times."

Her expression twisted in confusion, and she did not respond. Éomer sighed, squeezing her hand as he mentally repented of his goading. So he stopped walking, surprising Lothíriel into ceasing as well, and pulled her close.

She gave a small gasp as he drew her close in his arms, and bent his head downwards.

"I am going to kiss you," he drawled, touching his nose to hers. "I do not want you to be shocked."

"Oh—okay." Her voice was a squeak.

"And do not hold yourself so stiffly—it makes a man wonder if you want to be kissed at all."

Lothíriel blinked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting the stars. Then she relaxed into his embrace, and she was not clenching his tunic so tightly. Good. Éomer brushed his lips gently against hers. He could feel her intake of shaking breath, and deepened the kiss.

His mind muddled but he had no intention of stopping. Lothíriel was a fast learner, and began to respond fervently after only a few moments. Her arms wound around his neck, nearly choking him with his enthusiasm, and he could feel her heart beating from where their chests were pressed close. He was also fairly certain he had lifted her into the air. Éomer did not care.

They could have been there for only seconds or even an hours. Time was completely lost. It was a strange rumbling that caused Éomer to pull away at last, and in his confused state he immediately thought it was the cliffside crumbling. But Lothíriel was flushed, and she bit her swollen lip.

"I am sorry," she said.

"Eh?"

"Apparently—I am hungry."

Éomer stared, befuddled only for a moment before laughing loudly. Still chortling, he set the lady back on her feet, and she wobbled.

"I am not sure I can walk back," she admitted. "My legs feel like—like jelly."

"Hold onto my arm, then." He sympathized with this; he was feeling a little light-headed himself. They traversed in silence for some time. The city was visible with its golden twinkles far ahead, and above the stars shone silver. Here it was almost completely devoid of noise, apart from a distant crashing of waves below and their own footsteps.

After a while, Lothíriel broke the silence. "Well, I hope my kissing has improved."

Éomer laughed. " _I_ judge it to be so."

"Then I am both satisfied and gratified."

The palace drew near, and there was evidently no more to be said. The remainder of their walk was concluded without speaking, and at the north-end door by which they excited, Lothíriel hung back, her jaw rigid.

"Thank you, Éomer," she said. "Thank you for—for everything. I am grateful that you suggested a stroll. It was most refreshing."

He could not help grinning at this. Éomer lifted her chin with a finger, memorizing the sight of her grey eyes, which shone even in the dim corridor. "Thank _you_ , Lothíriel, for making my evening most pleasant."

Her cheeks tinged with pink. "Y—yes. And—I must go now."

"Go wherever you must."

Lothíriel frowned. "I am required to go to Minas Tirith, you know."

"Then there I shall find you."

"F—fine me? _Me_?" Her uncertainty was clear. Éomer loved it, and his smile broadened.

"Yes, _you_ , little widgeon," he said. "Give me another kiss before we go inside—I suspect our likelihood of escaping again will be rather slim. But I do not wish to speak of this to your father—not yet." She was taken aback, but a smile grew on her face, and she stood on her tiptoes to oblige him. Éomer inhaled her sweet scent, loving every second of it. She pulled away far too soon.

"Goodbye, Éomer," Lothíriel said, and with a final smile which he could not interpret for the life of him, hastened down the deserted corridor and disappeared.

Éomer let out a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and followed.

* * *

 _8 July 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

"She is _gone_?"

Éomer tried not to let his horror show, but Imrahil was far too keen—the prince's brows drew together, and he laced his fingers together in front of him.

"Yes," he said mildly. "I did inform her yesterday that she would depart at dawn."

Lothíriel had not mentioned it. Éomer felt a vague sense of betrayal, but the disappointment far overwhelmed it. If he had known she would be leaving for Minas Tirith the following day…well, he might have done things a bit differently.

"I apologize if my reaction was impolite," Éomer said quickly to Imrahil. "It only came as a surprise."

The prince waited for a moment before responding, "Indeed."

But somehow to Éomer it seemed the final week of his stay would be far less interesting.

There were still contracts to choose and to sign, as well as maps and plans to finalize. While Erchirion and Amrothos and sometimes Elphir were still the lively company as they normally were, Éomer rather thought they needed Lothíriel. She gave the brothers a bit of balance—without the sister, they were wont to bicker with one another.

Éomer did not pass through Minas Tirith when he rode back to Edoras, but the temptation was there.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey Folks, I just wanted to make a note before you read on, that YES, this is the final chapter and YES, the story is over. I realize this may be disappointing for those of you expecting something longer, but the truth is, I'm not really in the habit of writing 50k stories for small plot bunnies like these. Most of my fics are in the 10k-20k range, and frankly, I'm satisfied with that. They're short, they're supposed to be amusing, and if someone's day is brightened, my work is done. So please don't judge this story (or me) because, I don't know - other people write longer fics? You want to read more of it? It's too simple? I dunno. Just enjoy it. I ain't here to make a statement._

 _Anyways, that's the cause for delay in this final chapter. I just didn't want to disappoint all ya'll. But too late now. I hope you enjoy all the same :*_

* * *

 _19 December 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Winter in the city was brisk, and that dawn had brought a thin coat of snow upon the white houses and buildings of Minas Tirith. Éomer's breath plumed as he walked hastily for the citadel, anticipating a warm Merethrond and a hot drink. Thinking that Minas Tirith would somehow be a more pleasant place to spend the winter solstice than anywhere in Rohan had been, in retrospect, correct—but Edoras at least did not have such a mileage of streets to walk in the bitter cold.

Merethrond was as warm as he'd hoped, and he willingly shed his cloak in the antechamber and gave it to a maid. He dried his boots, and went into the main hall.

Hundreds of candles lit the empty space, and flickered off of silver-threaded banners and ladies' jewels. Woven evergreen branches draped from the pillars, and their scent staved off the usual smells of sweat and spirits. There were not as many people as he expected—but then again, Aragorn had told him it would be a small party.

Still, Éomer was jostled as he made his way around, intent on nowhere in particular.

But he was intent on _someone_ in particular.

He regretted not being able to search her out sooner—despite having been in the city for four days already, Éomer had been in councils every day until long past dark. There was no respite from duties here. Even when he had been in Aragorn's house, he had tried to linger here or there to catch sight of the Queen and her ladies. But he had not even seen Arwen for longer than five minutes or so, when he greeted her upon his initial arrival.

How often he had thought of Lothíriel these past months? How often had he imagined her face, alight with laughter? Of her lips, of her spirit. How many times had he worried for her in Minas Tirith's glittering and admittedly difficult-to-navigate court?

Too much, probably.

In his absent-mindedness, Éomer was paying little attention to his movements. And so when he trod on a skirt and lost his footing on the slippery fabric, he was taken aback when his elbow collided with someone's back and the skirt was yanked from beneath his foot.

"I beg your pardon," a voice snapped. A familiar voice. Éomer righted himself, and looked down to see a lovely, scowling face staring up at him. He smiled. The scowl faded, and a bright red flush took its place.

"Lady Lothíriel," he said, and swooped in a low bow.

"Er—"

Bumbling aside, she was leagues away from the dirty ranger he had met after the Battle of Pelennor fields. Her hair was shining ebony and drawn back into a low bun, and curls framed her face. A definite improvement. The dress she wore was just as flattering to her figure. The ranger was well hidden, and a very adapt lady had taken its place. Lothíriel held herself with confidence, and after an astonished moment during which she collected herself, she returned his smile.

"Éomer," she said. "I am glad to see you."

She was glad! That was very good for him. He picked up her hand, ignoring the fact that they were probably being watched. The King of Rohan and the only daughter of Imrahil were bound to attract speculation, especially together. But Éomer did not care.

"I saw that there is dancing," he said. "Would you oblige me?"

"Yes, I thank you."

They made for the open space where dancers already crowded and twirled around, and Éomer drew her close before beginning the steps of the dance.

"Well," he said after a moment. "You must tell me how you find the Queen and the court."

"Oh! Arwen is lovely—not as all as wickedly strict as I thought she would be. Oh!" Lothíriel said again, and her cheeks tinged with color. "Do not tell anyone I said that…"

"I will not," Éomer assured her. "Go on."

"She—she rides often, and invites me to go along with her. We have practiced archery together, too." Her eyes were sparkling. "Arwen values freedom as much as I do. She has said that she admires that I fought in the war. The _Queen_! Can you believe it?"

Éomer mused privately that Imrahil had made a very, very wise decision in sending his daughter to the Queen.

"Certainly she is a woman I wish to emulate," Lothíriel continued. "I have never known one so praiseworthy. If I am half as graceful and patient as Arwen is—I will be more than content in my life."

"This is a far cry from the Lothíriel I knew last summer," Éomer said, grinning as she blinked up at him. "I hope you have not changed too much."

"Oh—no, I do not think so." There was a distinct waver in her voice. If her thoughts were on their kisses, all the better. For that is where Éomer's thoughts were. Then she steeled herself and said, "I also spent time with your sister this autumn."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Lothíriel mused for a moment, and then with a sigh met Éomer's eyes. "We spoke a lot about—about fighting and war. She has the same idea as you, you know."

"What idea is that?"

"That war is a terrible, awful thing. That people losing their lives is not worth any glory—Éowyn said that she would gladly trade all the songs written of her slaying the Witchking to have your uncle back." Her smile was hesitant, and Éomer nodded to encourage her to continue. "I suppose not losing any relatives myself, I thought too much of the glory. I had to make no sacrifices, and yet I was ungrateful. I apologize, for—for being so...irrepressible."

"Irrepressible," Éomer said thoughtfully. "That is one word for it."

Lothíriel glowered at him, but her face twitched, and she did not stop a smile from forming. "And you still are," she said severely. "Teasing me so!"

"Yes, I am guilty of that much. I do like to tease, more so than I admitted to you that day on the beach."

Her narrowed eyes fastened upon him, and Éomer held back a laugh. He was impressed by this change in Lothíriel; while he was intrigued and attracted to her just the same, somehow he no longer doubted her suitability. No doubt many a man would be seeking her hand now—he would have to act quickly.

"I have often regretted," he said, and pulled a wistful face, gazing out at the crowd. "We never had a chance to have that archery contest."

"Oh!" Lothíriel gave a short laugh. "Well—we will have the chance in the coming days. Would you really care to? I have not had the opportunity to use a shortbow since I returned Elfhelm's."

"Hmm. Do you think we should make it more interesting?"

Her brows lifted.

"I propose a wager."

"A wager!" She was startled, but her lips tilted upwards. "I am listening."

"It must be something valuable enough that you would not throw the match in my favor," Éomer said, making a great show of consideration. "And menial enough that you will not leave me utterly in the dust with my pride all but gone."

"You have already something in mind."

"Aye! It has just come to me." He took a breath, unable to hide a grin and said, "My bow—made by the finest craftsman in Edoras—against your hand in marriage. The bow if you win, marriage otherwise."

" _What_!"

Éomer shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "But only if you feel that you are a challenge for me, that is."

"Why—I—!" Lothíriel's face was quite red now. "You needle me too skillfully! Did I confess to you I cannot resist a wager? Is this why you are taunting me so?"

"Perhaps!"

She swallowed, and her eyes were filled with confusion as she met his gaze. "I—I—" Her voice was no more than a whisper, and she swallowed again. "I can hardly refuse."

"Excellent! That is settled, then. And oh, the dance is over. May I return you to your escort? Amrothos, I believe." Éomer was enjoying himself far too much, and indeed as the music had ceased, wrapped the lady's limp arm through his, and steered her towards her brother.

She did not utter a word, even when he bowed and took his leave. Éomer was satisfied with her behavior towards him. He was fairly certain—though there was no well to tell for sure at present—that she did regard him with some affection. His was more than that, of course—but she would not know, either. A friendly competition was a simple way to tie things up nicely. Imrahil was in the city for the solstice as well, so arrangements could be made.

Éomer privately thanked his lucky stars he had had the foresight to practice his shortbow training all summer.

The evening wore on, but nothing was quite as exciting as that first dance. Éomer met many other ladies, but none entranced him. This enforced the idea that his heart was already engaged, and the very thought lightened his mood considerably. He was a happy man that night.

The only fear that niggled in his mind was that Lothíriel would withdraw from the match to avoid even the possibility of marrying him. That was not a happy thought at all.

* * *

 _22 December 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

He needn't have worried—he kept his bow _and_ won the lady.

And Firefoot got his mate.


End file.
